Fiction Drabble
Tiny bit of original fiction. Not sure if it's really any good, but I guess I'll find out. Mostly inspired by this song, so that might give you an idea of the mood I'm aiming for. Considering expanding the background I hint at in this story at some point. ETA: adding/will add more as the mood strikes.
---
At first, there is no indication that anything is wrong. There is no dramatic blaring of alarms, no traumatic hiss of escaping air or the ear-shattering roar of an explosion. There is only the slow blinking of a light that should be steady, a minor fault of the electronic and he extends a hand to tap the console, hoping to jar the loose diode back into place. That it is nothing more than a minor fault in the system. Nothing has gone wrong before. Not in any of the missions that he has been on to other systems, other faraway worlds and suns.
The first sign of trouble, serious trouble, comes when the thrusters on one side of his craft fail to fire. He remains calm, remembers his training; mission control is bleating in his ears as he tears the panel free, searches for the loose connection, as his craft slowly rolls through the great void of space. He has time, all the time in the world, his mind tells him, as fingers splice together wires, search for the one that has gone wrong. He depresses the button; nothing happens.
A cool, calm, collected and altogether artificial voice (a woman's) repeats the same words over and over again, never varying her tone. Fault. Fault. Fault. Abort. Abort. Abort.
He seizes the controls, tries to wrestle the craft around; he is heading for the planet he was meant to survey ahead of control and the mother-ship (the only home he has ever known). That same cool, voice beginning to call out warning after warning as he tumbles toward the atmosphere. Again, he plunges his hands into the mess of wires and tubes and equipment, attempting to bring something, anything out of this disaster.
He thinks of home, of the people he will leave behind. Another funeral without a body. Another empty berth and life will move on for the survivors. He will be remembered and then forgotten. Another name on the wall of those that gave their lives for the mothership and the promise of new worlds.
He squeezes the controls again and this time thrusters fire. Not nearly enough to boost him free of the gravity well, but enough to adjust his entry angle. That gives him the small consolation of knowing that at least he won't fry (and if the heat shielding holds, explode, either). The impact will probably kill him instead. A thousand pieces spread out over kilometers of planet.
Control vanishes in a squeal of static as the craft hits the atmosphere and the little scout vessel rocks as it's buffeted and beyond the viewport, he can see the hull heating as it streaks through the sky. He remembers his training again; what to do in case of an emergency ditch (silly to teach them this; most of the planets they scout are dead and lifeless, nothing more but barren rocks too far or too close to the sun). But he remembers that this time, there was a streak of green and brown and blue.
Maybe he has a chance.
He fires the thrusters again as the ship begins to slow, friction and air resistance doing their work. The ship is still out of his control and the vast surface of the planet fills his vision as he hurtles to earth. Another squeeze of the thrusters, his body presses back into the acceleration chair and he strains to slap the emergency chute.
There's a jerk as it deploys and then the craft tumbles as it's torn free. He feels himself jerked against his restraints and he can't quite reach-
The inflatable pads meant to ease the impact are out. One last shot before he ends up so much jelly on the inside of the little capsule he has called his own for years and his father before him. And his grandfather before that.
The reserve chutes finally go and with one last jerk, he is falling slower, slower-
The craft smashes into the ground and tumbles. A control panel slams into the side of his skull and lights flash in front of his eyes as the capsule rolls and tumbles and crashes through rock and dirt. It continues digging a furrow, until it finally comes to rest.
He cannot believe he is alive. The pilot checks himself for injuries and (miraculously), finds only scrapes and bumps and bruises (and what he suspects may be a concussion). He unstraps himself; there is still fuel aboard. Clambers through wreckage and the remains of what was once a brave little ship. He double-checks the seals on his suit - and then crawls out of the twisted little ship, swinging the airlock shut behind him, and waits.
It seems an eternity before it swings open.
Outside, it is dark; it is night. There are no familiar lights and no sounds inside of his helmet aside from his own labored breathing. Control has long since gone and the only thing in his ear is static. He looks down, raising the visor of his suit as he clambers awkwardly out of the trench his ruined craft dug. His limbs feel far too heavy.
He is startled to realize that there are plants beneath him. And he finally recognizes the little readout in his helmet that indicates the atmosphere seems safe. Relatively. He reaches up, removes the helmet with a hiss; takes a breath. It is not like the air on the mothership. It is different. With a scent that is not oil or plastic or anything that he recognizes. It is earth.
He looks up to a sky full of stars, glimmering like dying lights.
----
He has spent his whole life aboard the mother-ship; it is his home, his life, his purpose. The very idea of living on a planet's surface seems laughable; the lifeless, barren rocks that they find attest to the foolishness of such an idea. And yet, fragmentary records and stories tell them that they once lived on a planet and they were sent by such people to find another world capable of life and to colonize it. To spread the seed of their race to the stars. And that they were not one just one, but many; a thousand thousand ships like their own, all slowly coasting through the void in search of those tiny points of life-sustaining light.
But one has not been found. Not in his father's time, not in his grandfather's time and back and back and back, beyond living memory. Always, it has been the slow travel through the emptiness between stars, the occasional stop to refuel at a gas giant, the missions to seek out a life-bearing world. Their holds are full of equipment and manuals and instructions for seeding a new world. But one has never appeared. They are adrift and the artificial piece of a planet they have brought with them sustains them; grows their food, helps provide air. But all of the oxygen is scrubbed and stale and old. But it is a smell and a taste that he has grown up with.
He has always been expected to take his father's place as a pilot. It is in his blood, as it has always been. So he finds himself on this distant point of light, staring up at the night sky. Not from within the observation deck, not through thick panes of glass and reinforced materials, but from the surface. The soil under his boots is rocky, little tufts of grass dotting the ground. And dimly visible in the starlight and the faint glow of the planet's moon are a line of trees, swaying in the breeze.
He has only seen trees in pictures and vids. He begins to walk and his limbs feel heavier. He tries to take one of the large, bounding strides he's used to and finds that his body seems to weigh more, that he cannot move with the same practiced bounding ease that he is used to. It disturbs him. Is this what living planetside would do to him? To his friends and family?
He flexes a fit and frowns, staring up at the night sky again - and catches sight of a distant, moving star. He stares for a moment, squinting as he follows its pace across the arc of the sky. His partner. Scouts flew in pairs. She would be worried for him, he knew. She would wonder if he had survived, although he was sure the beacon would be beaming the constant signal - I am here, I am here, I am here, I am here - into the void. But that would not mean he lived, after all. Just that the transponder had survived the impact. They would find him. Eventually.
And perhaps they would stay.
The trees beckons and he begins to walk. He tires and pauses; it takes him longer than he expects to get there. When he reaches them, he finds a grove of trees and for a moment, he simply stares up at them, before he finally lifts a gloved hand and runs it slowly over the wrinkled, rough surface. He can only feel some of the texture through the heavy glove of his suit, but it is enough.
This is real.
----
His sense of wonder is dimmed, but not quite extinguished, when he remembers he must spend at least one night on the surface. The mothership is at least two or three days behind him and the other scouts. Maybe more. And their scouting craft are designed to hold two or three people at most and cannot lift off from the gravity well of this planet on their own. Even the larger control ship of the scouting force won't be able to get to him. Not yet. No, there will be no rescue for some time.
He has his rations and the emergency kit. But the kit - it was built for space. At least his suit, bulky though it is, keeps him warm and dry. He makes camp (if it can be called that) in the grove of trees and slurps down one of his nutrient packs - an edible paste for use in flight. A cool breeze runs over the stubble on his scalp and he shivers as he shifts against the tree. It is a strange experience. The temperature aboard the mother-ship is carefully maintained. Even in the scout craft, his suit and life support systems kept him comfortable. This is new, different, alien.
He is not sure he likes it.
The next morning, he awakens to a bright, yellow star rising over the horizon. A sun and a young one, one which will give this planet life for billions of years to come. Perhaps it will make a good home for his people one day (although the idea of living on the surface like this permanently is a disturbing one; he still feels too heavy and weighed down, not like the easy motions of home).
He shouldn't stray far from the wreck; that is how they'll find him when they come for him. But even so, the suit is heavy and bulky, strapped with life support equipment, meant to be worn in the weightlessness of space, not the heavy gravity well of a planet. So, reluctantly, he removes it. For now. The jumpsuit underneath is more comfortable, but he feels strangely vulnerable. He is meant to wear it at all times when there is a possibility of exposure, but here...
Here, he can feel sunlight on his skin, he can feel the breeze. There is no encroaching void (to which they all must ultimately return). No harm in removing it. Is there? He has a few days at least, with which to explore the area - a recon mission! He is still a scout, after all, and he must have some information to bring back, mustn't he?
He's quite pleased with his idea. It gives him an excuse to walk. So he does, examining trees and rocks, listening to the sounds of wildlife (sounds he had only heard in recordings). The pilot spends an hour or two simply meandering between trees and minutes staring at the blue sky and fluffy white clouds that slowly roll past overhead. Truly, this planet could be a paradise. He tires after a time and pauses to rest, slurping down a mouthful of nutrient past and sip of water.
Water.
He'll need more, eventually. The emergency supplies will last him a week at most. His suit can recycle his own waste for a while, but that is not an option he wishes to contemplate; experiencing a few days of that during his upbringing and induction to the rank of pilot was enough for him. He will secure more.
From his education and lessons, he knows that water occurs naturally on life-giving planets, that it flows in rivers and streams. But it must be purified first. Fortunately, the emergency kit contains one. Not that he ever expected to use it (for who would survive a crash landing from orbit). He retraces his steps, breathing a bit labored. This gravity will be the death of him where the crash was not, he thinks ruefully to himself. Would that not be an ironic end for an explorer and scout and pilot? To die from exhaustion having been the first to set foot on a life-giving world?
---
At first, there is no indication that anything is wrong. There is no dramatic blaring of alarms, no traumatic hiss of escaping air or the ear-shattering roar of an explosion. There is only the slow blinking of a light that should be steady, a minor fault of the electronic and he extends a hand to tap the console, hoping to jar the loose diode back into place. That it is nothing more than a minor fault in the system. Nothing has gone wrong before. Not in any of the missions that he has been on to other systems, other faraway worlds and suns.
The first sign of trouble, serious trouble, comes when the thrusters on one side of his craft fail to fire. He remains calm, remembers his training; mission control is bleating in his ears as he tears the panel free, searches for the loose connection, as his craft slowly rolls through the great void of space. He has time, all the time in the world, his mind tells him, as fingers splice together wires, search for the one that has gone wrong. He depresses the button; nothing happens.
A cool, calm, collected and altogether artificial voice (a woman's) repeats the same words over and over again, never varying her tone. Fault. Fault. Fault. Abort. Abort. Abort.
He seizes the controls, tries to wrestle the craft around; he is heading for the planet he was meant to survey ahead of control and the mother-ship (the only home he has ever known). That same cool, voice beginning to call out warning after warning as he tumbles toward the atmosphere. Again, he plunges his hands into the mess of wires and tubes and equipment, attempting to bring something, anything out of this disaster.
He thinks of home, of the people he will leave behind. Another funeral without a body. Another empty berth and life will move on for the survivors. He will be remembered and then forgotten. Another name on the wall of those that gave their lives for the mothership and the promise of new worlds.
He squeezes the controls again and this time thrusters fire. Not nearly enough to boost him free of the gravity well, but enough to adjust his entry angle. That gives him the small consolation of knowing that at least he won't fry (and if the heat shielding holds, explode, either). The impact will probably kill him instead. A thousand pieces spread out over kilometers of planet.
Control vanishes in a squeal of static as the craft hits the atmosphere and the little scout vessel rocks as it's buffeted and beyond the viewport, he can see the hull heating as it streaks through the sky. He remembers his training again; what to do in case of an emergency ditch (silly to teach them this; most of the planets they scout are dead and lifeless, nothing more but barren rocks too far or too close to the sun). But he remembers that this time, there was a streak of green and brown and blue.
Maybe he has a chance.
He fires the thrusters again as the ship begins to slow, friction and air resistance doing their work. The ship is still out of his control and the vast surface of the planet fills his vision as he hurtles to earth. Another squeeze of the thrusters, his body presses back into the acceleration chair and he strains to slap the emergency chute.
There's a jerk as it deploys and then the craft tumbles as it's torn free. He feels himself jerked against his restraints and he can't quite reach-
The inflatable pads meant to ease the impact are out. One last shot before he ends up so much jelly on the inside of the little capsule he has called his own for years and his father before him. And his grandfather before that.
The reserve chutes finally go and with one last jerk, he is falling slower, slower-
The craft smashes into the ground and tumbles. A control panel slams into the side of his skull and lights flash in front of his eyes as the capsule rolls and tumbles and crashes through rock and dirt. It continues digging a furrow, until it finally comes to rest.
He cannot believe he is alive. The pilot checks himself for injuries and (miraculously), finds only scrapes and bumps and bruises (and what he suspects may be a concussion). He unstraps himself; there is still fuel aboard. Clambers through wreckage and the remains of what was once a brave little ship. He double-checks the seals on his suit - and then crawls out of the twisted little ship, swinging the airlock shut behind him, and waits.
It seems an eternity before it swings open.
Outside, it is dark; it is night. There are no familiar lights and no sounds inside of his helmet aside from his own labored breathing. Control has long since gone and the only thing in his ear is static. He looks down, raising the visor of his suit as he clambers awkwardly out of the trench his ruined craft dug. His limbs feel far too heavy.
He is startled to realize that there are plants beneath him. And he finally recognizes the little readout in his helmet that indicates the atmosphere seems safe. Relatively. He reaches up, removes the helmet with a hiss; takes a breath. It is not like the air on the mothership. It is different. With a scent that is not oil or plastic or anything that he recognizes. It is earth.
He looks up to a sky full of stars, glimmering like dying lights.
----
He has spent his whole life aboard the mother-ship; it is his home, his life, his purpose. The very idea of living on a planet's surface seems laughable; the lifeless, barren rocks that they find attest to the foolishness of such an idea. And yet, fragmentary records and stories tell them that they once lived on a planet and they were sent by such people to find another world capable of life and to colonize it. To spread the seed of their race to the stars. And that they were not one just one, but many; a thousand thousand ships like their own, all slowly coasting through the void in search of those tiny points of life-sustaining light.
But one has not been found. Not in his father's time, not in his grandfather's time and back and back and back, beyond living memory. Always, it has been the slow travel through the emptiness between stars, the occasional stop to refuel at a gas giant, the missions to seek out a life-bearing world. Their holds are full of equipment and manuals and instructions for seeding a new world. But one has never appeared. They are adrift and the artificial piece of a planet they have brought with them sustains them; grows their food, helps provide air. But all of the oxygen is scrubbed and stale and old. But it is a smell and a taste that he has grown up with.
He has always been expected to take his father's place as a pilot. It is in his blood, as it has always been. So he finds himself on this distant point of light, staring up at the night sky. Not from within the observation deck, not through thick panes of glass and reinforced materials, but from the surface. The soil under his boots is rocky, little tufts of grass dotting the ground. And dimly visible in the starlight and the faint glow of the planet's moon are a line of trees, swaying in the breeze.
He has only seen trees in pictures and vids. He begins to walk and his limbs feel heavier. He tries to take one of the large, bounding strides he's used to and finds that his body seems to weigh more, that he cannot move with the same practiced bounding ease that he is used to. It disturbs him. Is this what living planetside would do to him? To his friends and family?
He flexes a fit and frowns, staring up at the night sky again - and catches sight of a distant, moving star. He stares for a moment, squinting as he follows its pace across the arc of the sky. His partner. Scouts flew in pairs. She would be worried for him, he knew. She would wonder if he had survived, although he was sure the beacon would be beaming the constant signal - I am here, I am here, I am here, I am here - into the void. But that would not mean he lived, after all. Just that the transponder had survived the impact. They would find him. Eventually.
And perhaps they would stay.
The trees beckons and he begins to walk. He tires and pauses; it takes him longer than he expects to get there. When he reaches them, he finds a grove of trees and for a moment, he simply stares up at them, before he finally lifts a gloved hand and runs it slowly over the wrinkled, rough surface. He can only feel some of the texture through the heavy glove of his suit, but it is enough.
This is real.
----
His sense of wonder is dimmed, but not quite extinguished, when he remembers he must spend at least one night on the surface. The mothership is at least two or three days behind him and the other scouts. Maybe more. And their scouting craft are designed to hold two or three people at most and cannot lift off from the gravity well of this planet on their own. Even the larger control ship of the scouting force won't be able to get to him. Not yet. No, there will be no rescue for some time.
He has his rations and the emergency kit. But the kit - it was built for space. At least his suit, bulky though it is, keeps him warm and dry. He makes camp (if it can be called that) in the grove of trees and slurps down one of his nutrient packs - an edible paste for use in flight. A cool breeze runs over the stubble on his scalp and he shivers as he shifts against the tree. It is a strange experience. The temperature aboard the mother-ship is carefully maintained. Even in the scout craft, his suit and life support systems kept him comfortable. This is new, different, alien.
He is not sure he likes it.
The next morning, he awakens to a bright, yellow star rising over the horizon. A sun and a young one, one which will give this planet life for billions of years to come. Perhaps it will make a good home for his people one day (although the idea of living on the surface like this permanently is a disturbing one; he still feels too heavy and weighed down, not like the easy motions of home).
He shouldn't stray far from the wreck; that is how they'll find him when they come for him. But even so, the suit is heavy and bulky, strapped with life support equipment, meant to be worn in the weightlessness of space, not the heavy gravity well of a planet. So, reluctantly, he removes it. For now. The jumpsuit underneath is more comfortable, but he feels strangely vulnerable. He is meant to wear it at all times when there is a possibility of exposure, but here...
Here, he can feel sunlight on his skin, he can feel the breeze. There is no encroaching void (to which they all must ultimately return). No harm in removing it. Is there? He has a few days at least, with which to explore the area - a recon mission! He is still a scout, after all, and he must have some information to bring back, mustn't he?
He's quite pleased with his idea. It gives him an excuse to walk. So he does, examining trees and rocks, listening to the sounds of wildlife (sounds he had only heard in recordings). The pilot spends an hour or two simply meandering between trees and minutes staring at the blue sky and fluffy white clouds that slowly roll past overhead. Truly, this planet could be a paradise. He tires after a time and pauses to rest, slurping down a mouthful of nutrient past and sip of water.
Water.
He'll need more, eventually. The emergency supplies will last him a week at most. His suit can recycle his own waste for a while, but that is not an option he wishes to contemplate; experiencing a few days of that during his upbringing and induction to the rank of pilot was enough for him. He will secure more.
From his education and lessons, he knows that water occurs naturally on life-giving planets, that it flows in rivers and streams. But it must be purified first. Fortunately, the emergency kit contains one. Not that he ever expected to use it (for who would survive a crash landing from orbit). He retraces his steps, breathing a bit labored. This gravity will be the death of him where the crash was not, he thinks ruefully to himself. Would that not be an ironic end for an explorer and scout and pilot? To die from exhaustion having been the first to set foot on a life-giving world?